Enigma
by Joodiff
Summary: Not long after joining the CCU, Eve has an unexpected opportunity to speculate at length on the true nature of the relationship between two of her colleagues. Complete. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

* * *

 **Enigma**

by Joodiff

* * *

He's very fond of context. Eve Lockhart is rapidly learning that about her new boss. Tell him that the traces of soil under a desiccated corpse's fingernails came from a particular geographical location and he will immediately want to visit it. Point out that basic ballistics negate a decade-old theory on where a shooter was standing when he – or she – pulled the trigger, and he will demand a full re-enactment to decide for himself. It's refreshing… and also a touch irritating. Depending on context, naturally enough. It's also why she's currently balancing unsteadily on one leg trying to wriggle out of a mud-spattered white forensic suit while the biting cold breeze coming in off the river tries its absolute best to slice her in half.

A little way away in the mud, right on the peripheral edge of her vision, a brief, heads-down discussion she can't quite hear is taking place. She's not sure if she feels deliberately excluded or not. She is, after all, still very much the CCU's new girl, and therefore something of an outsider in what she's discovered is a diligent, idiosyncratic, and very close-knit group, but thus far most of the subtle distance between _them_ and _her_ has been of her own making. Eve's not shy or at all lacking in self-confidence, but there's something a bit… well, intimidating… about Detective Superintendent Peter Boyd and his merry band of high-achieving misfits. A sense that although individually they are all prepared to be friendly enough, as a group they expect any newcomer to the team to work extra hard to fit in and earn his or her place.

That's okay, though, Eve reflects, as she does an awkward on-the-spot jig to keep herself from falling over. She fully expected a degree of suspicion and cynicism from her new colleagues, given what she'd heard – unofficially – about the circumstances of her immediate predecessor's departure, and about how she apparently failed to ever really find her feet in the Metropolitan Police's increasingly infamous Cold Case Unit. No, everything being equal, as long as her expertise is respected – which it has been so far – she doesn't really mind if it takes them a while to fully accept her as one of them.

Finally free of the dirty, crumpled suit, she starts to roll it into a tight wadded sausage while she casts a covert eye over the small group to her left. It seems to be the two men doing most of the talking, but she doesn't read anything sinister into that. So far the CCU seems remarkably free of the sort of unconscious, ingrained sexism she's had the misfortune to encounter several times in her forensic career. DSI Boyd, it appears, has no compunction at all about barking irritably at anyone, regardless of gender, ethnicity, sexual orientation, or anything else, and whether or not he knows it, the taciturn and often surly DI Spencer Jordan seems automatically follow where his superior leads. A simple case of unwitting hero worship, Eve thought at first, but she's already deduced that there's much, much more to Spencer's erratic relationship with Boyd than something so clichéd and straightforward. There's rebellion, jealousy, and opposition, to start with. Also, a healthy degree of grudging respect and admiration.

Her gaze, cautious as it is, moves from the men to the women. To DC Stella Goodman, the youngest and most junior member of the team, and then to Doctor Grace Foley. The former reminds Eve of a timid, gazelle-like creature doing its very best to survive in a hostile land of wily and experienced predators. Yet, there's clearly far more to her, too. An unexpected edge of toughness that complements a very real but partially-hidden streak of obstinate wilfulness. She may look fragile and innocent, but Eve has a notion that there's a tough steel core to Stella that has yet to be tested to the full. A considerable and deceptive strength of character. Which brings her attention back to Grace Foley, standing quietly at Boyd's shoulder, watching everything and everyone with those sharp blue eyes that never seem to miss a thing.

It was easy to warm to Grace from the very first day, but it didn't take Eve very long to realise that she, too, is just as steely beneath her quiet serenity. Empathetic, yes, and helpful and friendly, but perhaps just as stubborn and strong-willed as Boyd himself. Less inclined to shout and bully, and lose her temper, but just as implacable and determined to be heard. If Peter Boyd is the team's iron hand, then there's no doubt in Eve's mind that Grace is its velvet glove. The wise, intelligent, and universally respected matriarch that everyone likes and trusts.

The discussion seems to reach its natural conclusion, and as Eve returns her attention to preparing to leave the desolate stretch of riverside wasteland, her colleagues start back into movement. A long shadow falls across her, and an increasingly-familiar voice inquires, "All set, Eve?"

"Almost," she confirms, glancing round at him. Mid-fifties, tall, and well-built – not to mention rather more than passably handsome – she can sort of see, in a purely academic way, why a surprising number of women seem to find him extremely attractive. She's heard the gossip, knows there's an acerbic ex-wife somewhere in the background. An ex-wife, and the daily heartbreak of a long-missing son. She wonders what kind of stark courage it takes to endlessly see his ongoing pain reflected back at him in the drawn expressions of grieving friends and relatives. What sort of inner strength it takes to continue do the job he does without breaking down. Part of the answer, she thinks, must be the woman who joins them with a slight, encouraging smile. Grace. Maybe as far as the CCU is concerned the answer is always Grace.

"Stella and Spence are going off to interview Price," Boyd says, clapping his leather-gloved hands together as if to try and restore some circulation to his fingers, "so you can ride back with us."

"Fine," Eve says, hiding a real trace of surprise. Whenever there are two cars involved, she's discovered, there seems to be a tacit understanding that Boyd and Grace will travel alone together in one, and everyone else can take their chances in the other. It's just how things seem to work.

"Don't worry," Grace says, the smile now transferred to her voice, "he's actually a very safe driver. _Most_ of the time."

The comment earns her a derisive snort from the man in question, but he issues no challenge. Looking at the twin aluminium equipment cases now standing packed and ready, he says, "This everything?"

"Apart from this," Eve tells him, quickly bagging her discarded forensic suit. "Is the boot unlocked…?"

He gives her a quizzical look, one she doesn't understand until he stoops to pick up the cases, one in each hand. Evidently it doesn't occur to him to let her carry her own gear to his car. She can't decide if she's charmed or infuriated by the automatic provision of unrequested help. Whether it's gallantry, or just good old-fashioned male chauvinism.

Grace understands her dilemma, it seems. "Why keep a dog and bark yourself, eh, Eve?"

"Woof," Boyd says, starting into motion. It's an unexpected touch of self-deprecatory humour, and it eases Eve's mild discomfort. She shrugs, more to herself than to them, and watches as he heads towards the big silver Audi parked askew near the old, rusting metal gate. His long-legged stride is powerful, distinctive.

At her shoulder, Grace inquires, "Okay?"

"Yeah," Eve says, an entirely reflex response. "Just freezing cold."

"It's bitter out here," Grace agrees, hitching the strap of her bag further up her shoulder. "Trust Boyd to pick the coldest day of the month for a trip out."

She grunts noncommittally, then asks, "Do _you_ think Christine was killed here, Grace?"

A thoughtful, searching look precedes, "No. No, I don't. And neither does Boyd."

Eve frowns. "But he said…"

"Ah," Grace says, "but it's what he _didn't_ say that's important."

"I see." But she doesn't, not really.

Grace doesn't offer to elucidate further. "Shall we go? It's far too cold to be standing around unnecessarily."

-oOo-

Boyd's car, Eve discovers, has heated leather seats, even in the rear. An unexpected luxury that she finds herself thoroughly approving of, given how bone-achingly cold she really is. It doesn't take many minutes for a pleasant, gentle warmth to start permeating through her clothes, and as it does she starts to properly relax for the first time in what feels like days. Warm and comfortable, and incredibly weary, she's very soon fighting a powerful urge to yawn, to snuggle deeper into the folds of her beloved old duffle coat and close her eyes, just for a few minutes. In Spencer's car, she might have risked doing just that. Not in Boyd's. Far too unprofessional, for a start, and…

"If you go down Caulder Street," Grace's voice says, jerking Eve back to full, guilty alertness, "you'll avoid the roadworks on Newbury Road."

"And get caught in the bloody traffic coming off the North Circular?" their driver retorts. "No, thank you."

"It'll be quicker, trust me."

"Grace, if you ever learn how to navigate without getting hideously lost, I'll think about following your directions. Until then…"

A derisive sniff is followed by, "Fine. Well, don't blame me when you're swearing your head off because we're stuck in a stationary queue, then."

"I won't."

"Good."

Forcibly reminded of childhood journeys listening to her parents fighting non-stop about everything and nothing, Eve has to work hard to suppress a smirk. In a strange way, though, there's something almost… reassuring… about the way Boyd and Grace seem to quarrel endlessly over silly, everyday things. A sense that if they're happily bickering, everything must be all right with the world. The formidable defensive wall they present together in the face of adversity is far more worrying, she's rapidly finding out. The way they close ranks to show a solid united front indicative of a tried and tested professional relationship that has endured for… how long? Eve isn't sure. It's a question she'll ask one or the other one day, but until then, she'll just quietly listen to all the rumours and gossip about them and try her level best to identify any scraps of actual truth that might be nested deep within all the convoluted, exaggerated fairytales.

The salacious nature of some of those rumours, though…

Seated directly behind Boyd, she finds herself intently studying what she can see of the back of his head past the headrest. Not much to study, in all honesty. Thick grey hair swept neatly back. Probably helped along by a touch of gel or other masculine styling product. Vain enough to bother with a dedicated grooming regime, not vain enough to attempt to dye away the physical evidence of the years. Amongst the iron grey, a few lingering touches remain of a much darker colour, but there are a great many shining threads of pure silver in evidence, too. Simple genetics, or the physical evidence of a life that has apparently been far from easy? Eve isn't sure.

Her gaze shifts, moves to the woman in the front passenger seat. Not quite in profile, due to their relative positions in the car, but almost. Grace is a few years older than Boyd, Eve knows, though quite how many remains elegantly obscure, and one of the things that struck her most when they first met is just how… gracefully… the other woman carries her age. The years gently mitigated rather than poorly disguised. It's entirely characteristic, Eve thinks, like the well-considered dress sense that's sensible and professional but also feminine and just a touch eclectic. Which, as it happens, is a pretty damned good description of the woman herself. Whether there are tragedies in Grace's past, too, Eve doesn't know, but she suspects there's a complicated, painful reason why there is a wedding ring but apparently no husband, alive or dead.

Maybe they emphasise with each other, Boyd and Grace. Maybe they understand each other's shadows, recognise each other's demons. Maybe they know more than most about the dark things that are kept firmly hidden away from public view, but are never really forgotten.

Without warning, Grace glances over her shoulder and asks, "Are you all right back there, Eve?"

"Fine," she says, noting the way Boyd's gaze flicks to the rear-view mirror on cue. They regard each other for just a second, maybe less, and then he returns to concentrating on the road ahead. She wonders if he was somehow aware of her concentrated scrutiny of the pair of them. It's a distinct possibility, based on her admittedly limited experience of the man. Uncanny ability to know exactly what's going on behind his back.

"Warm enough?" Grace further enquires.

"Yes, thanks." It sounds so banal, the exchange, but somehow it means a lot to Eve. Demonstrates at least a passing level of concern for her welfare. More than she's received in some of her previous jobs.

"Turn left here." Grace again.

Boyd sounds irritable as he retorts, "What? Why?"

"It'll take us down past the Duke's Head, cut out the traffic lights at the top of the hill."

"Who's bloody driving, Grace? You or me?"

"You are," is the serene reply.

"You're sure about that, are you?"

"Quite sure."

 _Just_ like her parents, Eve thinks, and this time she does smirk. But only to herself.

Grace reaches towards the vehicle's central console, the unexpected movement catching Eve's eye. Nothing is said by anyone as she slides open one of the little compartments and extracts what appears to be a small, crumpled cellophane bag of sweets. Another mild, over-the-shoulder glance. "Mint, Eve?"

"Um… no. Thanks anyway." More banality, yet…

It tells Eve something. Tells her that Grace is so comfortable being a passenger in this big, well-equipped executive car that she knows where the treats are stashed, and doesn't feel the need to ask permission to dip into them. Highly intriguing.

Maybe there's more to some of those rumours than she first thought. Maybe there's –

"Fuck's sake," Boyd growls, breaking into her chain of thought. The reason for his displeasure is clear – ahead of them the late afternoon traffic is at a tightly-bunched standstill.

From the passenger seat comes a quietly smug, "Told you so."

-oOo-

Eve drifts gently, not quite asleep, not quite awake. The car is warm, and its near-immobility is somehow soporific. The occasional grumbling complaint that is louder and more forcible than the others makes her stir enough to open her eyes now and again, but every time she does, little has changed. They are well and truly stuck in the snarled-up chaos of rush hour. Doesn't matter much to her, not in her current dozy state.

"For the hundredth bloody time, Grace," Boyd's impatient voice barks, one again snapping her back into full consciousness, "I am _not_ risking getting caught using blues and twos just to escape the damned traffic."

"Well, for heaven's sake stop moaning then. If you'd listened to me in the first place – "

She's getting pretty good at tuning out the incessant squabbling from the front seats. Most of it is just background noise, the everyday sound of Boyd and Grace being… well, just Boyd and Grace. There's no malice to any of it, she's certain. To them, it seems to be a perfectly normal and acceptable form of communication; a touch of sport to liven up the long working day, even.

"Will you stop doing that," Boyd's irritable voice commands.

Eve has no idea what Grace is doing, nor can she really be bothered to open her eyes again to find out.

"You're far too obsessive about the state of your car, Boyd," is the immediate and waspish reply.

"If preferring to keep it clean and tidy is obsessive, then, yeah, I am. You should try it sometime – who knows what you might find if you actually bothered to chuck out all the rubbish festering in that old wreck of yours."

Grace's tone is haughty as she retorts, "Maybe I have far more important things to do with my precious free time than worry about a few old sweet wrappers."

"Such as…?"

When there's no audible reply, Eve risks slitting her eyes open a tiny fraction. Grace is looking at Boyd, her expression one of amused tolerance. Amused tolerance… and just a touch of something else. Something that suggests that no words are needed to convey exactly what she wants to convey to the driver. There's nothing blatantly inappropriate about the nature of that look, but something about its character makes Eve feel uncomfortable. Once again very much on the outside. A stranger trespassing on the edges of a private world. She closes her eyes again, not wanting to be noticed noticing.

What the hell _is_ it with the two of them?

There's the simplest, most obvious answer, of course, the one couched in the knowing winks and innuendo of incorrigible office gossips, but… well. Well, just because they have such an intriguing rapport and they happen to be of opposite genders… surely it's not a foregone conclusion that they must be sleeping together. Is it?

"She asleep?" Boyd's voice asks.

A tiny hesitation. "Looks like it. Shall I…?"

"No," he replies, much to Eve's silent surprise. His tone is gruff as he adds, "Leave her be. Poor kid's just about dead on her feet."

Kid? _Kid?!_ It's a long time since she's heard herself described in such a way. A very long time, in fact.

Grace snorts. "If you'd bothered to read her personnel file properly, Boyd, you'd know she's nearly forty. I hardly think she qualifies as a kid, do you?"

"Whatever." Dismissive. "She's been called out overnight twice already this week covering for Norris."

"Really?"

"Mm." He does not sound pleased. "I'm going to talk to Blake about it. I'm not happy about all this lease-lend stuff."

A soft chuckle. "There, and I thought you were just concerned for Eve."

"Well, of course I bloody am, Grace. That goes without saying."

Mild astonishment and some discomfiture keep Eve still and silent, but her thoughts start to race. Boyd knew, of course, that with her fellow pathologist Alan Norris currently on extended sick leave, she was providing additional forensic cover – along with several of her locally-registered peers – beyond her remit with the CCU, but she's surprised to learn that he's already aware of the early-morning call-outs she hasn't yet told him about. Well, perhaps not so much surprised that he _knows_ , but that he apparently _cares_ whether or not she's trying to do too much. Which she most definitely is, of course. So far he's struck her as the kind of man who doesn't give a damn about what his staff are up to in their off-duty hours as long as they work hard and do their very best to achieve the impossible.

Grace says, "She's a Home Office-registered pathologist, Boyd – there's nothing you can do about it."

There's a grim edge to his voice that suggests real obstinacy as he replies, "We'll see."

An audible sigh. "Going in all-guns-blazing won't get you anywhere."

"I'm entitled to be annoyed, Grace. You do know how much of my ever-decreasing budget goes just on funding the two of you?"

"Are you suggesting we're not worth it?"

"Trust me, I'm really not that stupid," he replies. Then the timbre of his voice changes, becomes notably deeper and smoother as he continues, "You know I think you're worth every damn penny I've ever spent on you, Grace."

Not for one second does Eve imagine he's talking in professional terms. Outwardly, she continues to feign blessed unconsciousness. Inwardly, she comes very close to squirming as her unruly, speculative thoughts try to head to forbidden places she'd rather not visit.

"Well, _I_ think you should save the charm offensive until later."

"Oh?" Intrigued. Most definitely.

"Mm. Who knows where it might get you…?"

 _Oh, for God's sake…_

She really, really shouldn't have given in to the temptation to doze, Eve thinks. She's certain that if she was still sitting upright and alert the conversation in the front of the car would have remained much more… seemly. But her curiosity is piqued, no question.

"So was Christine killed in her flat?"

 _Wait… what?_ How on earth, she wonders, do they do it? Segue from one thing to completely another so easily.

"I think so," Grace says, "don't you?"

"Gut instinct? Yeah. No doubt about it. Which begs the question…"

"…how and why was the originally investigation botched so badly?"

"Sheppard knows more than he's saying."

"Yes. _Cacciari's_?"

"Tonight?"

"Why not?" Grace's languid voice replies. "We should be able to get a table. So, we go back to the original plan and bring him in for formal questioning, then?"

"Assuming Spence and Stella don't turn up anything useful, yes. You can pay."

It's fascinating, Eve decides, the way they talk when they think no-one's listening to them. The way the conversation zig-zags, and yet neither gets lost in the convoluted twists and turns. It's a rare insight into what makes them such a good team, and yet she has no idea how their relationship, spiky as it often seems to be, works so well. They're so… different. There's no other way to describe it. The big, brash, bullish man with the fiery temper, and the slight, serene woman with the warm, encouraging smile and the formidable intellect. What do they have in common beyond their jobs? What strange alchemy bonds them? It's an enigma, a puzzle that she's sure goes much deeper than ordinary, superficial things.

It's not surprising the CCU has been the unexpected success that it has been, she thinks. Not with the stubborn, dedicated Peter Boyd at the helm, and the equally stubborn and exceptionally brilliant Doctor Foley always at his shoulder.

It was a good choice, accepting the unique and much-prized offer to join the CCU. A very good choice.

But try as she might, Eve still can't work out what the hell is really going on between the two people in the front of the car.

-oOo-

"Eve?" a quiet, gentle female voice says. "Eve, we're here. Come on, wake up."

She jolts upright with such a start that she feels the world momentarily spin around her. At what point she actually fell deeply asleep, Eve isn't sure, but just a quick look tells her that they are now parked in the gated compound at the rear of the police-owned building that contains the unit's headquarters, and that the sun has long since set. The car's interior lights are on, and two sets of eyes, one a clear and vivid blue, the other a deep, intense brown, are gazing at her with an unnerving sort of calm, steady interest.

"Shit," she says, the word tumbling forth before she can think about it. "Sorry. I must have dozed off…"

"I think that's a fairly safe assumption," Boyd says. He sounds more amused than irked. "Get your stuff inside and packed away, and then bugger off."

Her thought-processes don't seem to have their usual sharp edge. Eve stares at him, trying to make sense of the words. "What? But I have to – "

"Eve," Grace interjects, "go home."

"You're no bloody use to me when you're this tired," Boyd adds with a gruffness that might or might not be feigned. "Go home, go to bed. Ignore the damned phone. I'll square it with Doctor Blake if there's a problem. Be back here at ten tomorrow morning."

"Ten…?"

"Don't argue with him," Grace advises, "not while he's in such a charitable mood."

"But…" she says, well-aware of how much work still awaits her in the CCU's well-equipped lab.

A dark, intimidating gaze bores into her. "Go. Home."

Meek submission, though not at all her style, seems to be the absolute best option. On this occasion, at least. "Yes, boss."

-oOo-

Making sure the still, silent lab is locked and secure, a yawning Eve heads for the CCU's squad room. Finds it shadowy and quiet, the fluorescent strip lights above the evidence board providing the only lighting save for a muted glow emanating from Grace's office. The privacy blinds are still three-quarters closed, just as they were hours before when they all headed for the riverside site where Christine Latham's naked body was found years before. It's possible Grace forgot to switch off the lamp on her desk earlier, but it's not Eve's place to go and investigate. With no colleagues present to bid farewell to, she walks towards the short flight of concrete steps between the two glass-enclosed offices that belong to Grace and Boyd respectively. The latter's lair is in absolute darkness, the door firmly closed. The former's door, she discovers, as she reaches it, is not closed. Nor is it even ajar. It is wide open.

"Eve," a sudden deep male voice from within says, making her jump. "Why are you still here?"

Moving into the open doorway, she surveys the unusually tranquil scene before her. Grace is seated behind her desk, her posture relaxed, one hand cradling a glass of what Eve assumes is wine from the bottle sitting next to the – illuminated – desk lamp. She doesn't look like a woman who is hard at work doing anything in particular. On the far side of the room, Boyd is lounging at his ease on the couch, suit jacket cast aside, one long leg crossed casually over the other. He's in possession of a matching glass, and seems to be just about as busy as Grace is. Neither of them look guilty, or flustered, or bemused. In fact, they both look very serene. Comfortable.

"I'm just leaving," she defends herself, absorbing every fascinating detail of the easy tableau. "The others not back?"

"Been and gone," Boyd says. "Nothing significant to report."

"Would you like a glass of wine?" Grace offers, as if there could be nothing more natural in the world. "Pinot Noir?"

"I'm much more of a spirits woman, I'm afraid," Eve admits, which, though true, she feels is also a polite enough way to decline the disconcerting invitation. The idea of joining them in their quiet, unguarded moment is uncomfortable at best. Again, there's nothing exactly inappropriate about the situation – two long-standing colleagues having a quick drink together after work – but this, she feels, is certainly one of those times when three would most definitely be a crowd.

"Go home," Boyd tells her once again. "Nothing's going to change overnight."

"I guess not." Eve looks from one to the other, finds both of them infuriatingly inscrutable. She can't even tell if they _are_ actually hiding something from the world, let alone what it might be if they are.

Just good friends? She's really not sure anymore. But it's none of her business anyway.

"Well… good night, then," she says, stepping back. "See you tomorrow."

There's a dismissive grunt from Boyd, and a quiet farewell from Grace. She's aware that they're both watching her intently as she turns and walks towards the steps, leaving silence behind her. She wonders what they will talk about when she's gone, whether or not they'll go out to dinner together. Whether they'll part company before dawn.

As she pushes through the double doors at the top of the steps, she hears the quiet murmur of voices as conversation resumes in her wake. As the doors swing closed, the very last thing Eve hears before all noise is cut off is the soft sound of gentle female laughter.

And she still has no damn clue what to really make of the fascinating, infuriating enigma that is Boyd and Grace.

 _\- the end -_


End file.
